


Coup de Feu

by xenotongue (alientongue)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Explicit Consent, First Time, M/M, Pregnancy Risk, Risk-taking, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, the russian roulette of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22156429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alientongue/pseuds/xenotongue
Summary: Awkwardly, politely, Saihara smiles. The mattress underneath his back feels no different than his own and the familiarity is disorienting, makes his skin prickle. “Ah, um. No thank you, Shinguuji.” On reflex, he reaches up, but there’s no hat to pull over his eyes anymore. “It was very nice of you to offer, though.”Arms folded loosely over his chest, Shinguuji doesn’t move. All Saihara can see of his face is vulpine eyes tracing his posture from head to heel down the bed. “Are you certain,” Shinguuji asks, “that you would like to proceed with this?”Saihara and Shinguuji play a game.
Relationships: Saihara Shuichi/Shinguji Korekiyo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 180





	Coup de Feu

Shinguuji’s room is surprisingly innocuous. There are no swords, no sarcophagi, no esoteric idols: it’s just white walls and a blue bed, the only difference from Saihara’s room the stack of books on the bedside table.

Saihara lets his eyes skim their spines as he sits down, settles himself over the bedspread. They’re all anthropological nonfiction, it seems, none of the mystery novels he’s thought of borrowing from the library.

“If you would like to peruse any reading material, feel free to do so,” Shinguuji says, standing at the foot of the bed. There’s a stark kind of elegance to the lines of his silhouette. “I’ve finished most of those already. They’re a pleasant object of study, but not enough to withhold from you.”

Awkwardly, politely, Saihara smiles. The mattress underneath his back feels no different than his own and the familiarity is disorienting, makes his skin prickle. “Ah, um. No thank you, Shinguuji.” On reflex, he reaches up, but there’s no hat to pull over his eyes anymore. “It was very nice of you to offer, though.”

Arms folded loosely over his chest, Shinguuji doesn’t move. All Saihara can see of his face is vulpine eyes tracing his posture from head to heel down the bed. “Are you certain,” Shinguuji asks, “that you would like to proceed with this?”

Something like heat and cold at once burns under Saihara’s cheeks as his stomach twists, a nauseous fluttering sensation. The fabric of the bedspread is a very soft, fine weave under his fingertips, and each heavy beat of his heart anchors him down into the reality of it. He tries to keep his movements steady as he nods.

Shinguuji’s expression doesn’t change. “Very well.” The index finger of one hand lifts, questioning. “And you recall the safeword?”

“Byzantine,” Saihara answers, grateful that his voice does not falter, though it leaves him entirely once Shinguuji moves to kneel on the bed. It’s a large enough mattress that Shinguuji isn’t directly situated between his legs, but inches closer he would be.

Primly, as if sitting for a meal, Shinguuji rests his bandaged hands on his knees. The yellow of his eyes is serene, calculating, under lowered lids. “If at any point you become uncomfortable, do not hesitate,” he says. “I will give ample warning as well. Rest assured I’ve had practice.”

As much comfort as the statement provides, it knots Saihara’s stomach tighter. He swallows, dry-mouthed, and nods again. His breath is already beginning to labor.

There’s not quite softness in Shinguuji’s gaze, but the cool of it is like a balm. His long, straight-cut tresses spill over one shoulder as he cocks his head. “Would you like to undress yourself, or should I?”

In response, Saihara reaches for the front of his pants, fumbling the zippered fly open before sliding the waistband down his thighs and pulling each leg free. The burn under his skin has only intensified, spreading to the tips of his ears where he can hear the rush of his own pulse, and when he inches his boxers over and off his hips a string of fluid connects their inseam to his groin.

Shinguuji hums a noise that sounds vaguely pleased. Saihara wonders if anyone’s ever had a heart attack on their first try stripping for someone.

Now, Shinguuji’s eyes crinkle in an evident smile. “You’re bright red,” he observes. “May I touch you?”

“Yes,” Saihara manages through a throat that is rapidly becoming uncooperative with words.

With remarkable grace for someone on hands and knees, Shinguuji draws closer on the bed, fully between Saihara’s legs, one hand bracing on Saihara’s thigh. It’s a light touch, an almost silky touch through the bandages, and Saihara’s heart pounds _thump-thump-thump_ like a stake through his chest into the bed.

“Breathe,” Shinguuji reminds, before his other hand reaches out and begins to stroke careful fingertips along Saihara’s folds and Saihara startles, flushes, exhales in a short little gasp, then tries to follow the advice.

He is here. He is in Shinguuji’s room, on Shinguuji’s bed, letting Shinguuji’s fingers map his groin through neatly-trimmed dark hair, and he is alright. He is alright. He breathes.

“Good,” Shinguuji murmurs. “Good.” The pad of his finger draws slow, delicate circles around Saihara’s clit. “Are you receptive to clitoral stimulation?”

“Um,” Saihara says, still reeling at the sensation of the contact, vaguely aware that he might find the clinicality of the wording funny were his mind not racing to process it all. “Um, not really.”

One of Shinguuji’s eyebrows arches, surprised rather than disbelieving. “Really?” The circles close, spiraling in until Shinguuji is pressing his clit in a gentle, practiced motion, but though Saihara’s breath hitches it’s not enough to coax any more heat from his groin.

“Interesting,” Shinguuji says, and sounds like he means it. “I’m going to try vaginal penetration now, if you would like.”

For the third time tonight, Saihara nods, because he would like it. His abdomen is tensing in quick, erratic ripples of muscle, but he would, so when Shinguuji’s fingertips trail down between his folds he closes his eyes and opens his thighs further apart.

One finger slips in easily. Experimentally, the second does as well, and Saihara is struggling to breathe again, screwing his eyes tighter, clamping his jaw shut. _Oh_ , he thinks. Oh. Someone else is inside him. It’s as simple and enormous as that.

A strange note of reverence tinges Shinguuji’s voice. “You’re impressively wet, Saihara.” He’s about to open his eyes, out of morbid curiosity if nothing else, but then the fingers slide deeper and the realization continues to paralyze him. It feels—stretching and electric. Good. “I’ve always seen a certain beauty in you.”

And with that, Shinguuji begins to gently fuck him on his fingers. Saihara keeps his eyes closed, keeps his jaw shut, quivers. He isn’t moaning like he’s seen in porn or read in erotica; the only noises bubbling up from his chest are rasping little sighs and whimpers from behind his lips. They mingle with the wet sounds of Shinguuji’s fingers pumping in and out of him, curling against his walls, though, so it feels filthy all the same, filthy in the quietest way. His cunt squeezes around the solid pressure of its own accord, on its own instinct.

He’s not sure how long it is, seconds or minutes, until Shinguuji speaks again, his motions slowing. “Physically, you should be prepared.” His words fall in a calm, steady tempo, even between heavy breaths, and Saihara finally, tentatively opens his eyes to find a faint blush peeking over his mask. “How are you mentally?”

Taut muscle of his legs trembling slightly, Saihara inhales. “I’m ready,” he says, voice small but level, dizzy with the air on his skin and slick on his thighs. He can feel his own heartbeat through his cunt.

“Alright.” Shinguuji sits up once more and the slender, deft fingers of his clean hand dip to his waistband. He works quickly, precisely, and the moment does not slow down as Saihara had thought it might when he guides his erection free through the open front of his pants.

It’s not Saihara’s first time seeing a cock, but it looks different in person. Absurdly, even in this situation—it feels less pornographic. Less of a spectacle than simply a part of Shinguuji’s body, a part of Shinguuji. It’s him who’s leaking a welling bead of precum from the reddened tip.

As Saihara watches, Shinguuji lifts his dirtied hand to wrap loosely around the girth of his cock. His thumb rolls over the tip, smears his own precum with Saihara’s fluids. “I doubt I will be too thick for you, but do tell me if length proves to be a problem.”

There’s not a shadow of boasting to the statement. His cock _is_ long, not unreasonably or outlandishly so, but the most Saihara’s had inside him before has been half of a hairbrush handle and so he nods dumbly, brilliantly warm down to his collar.

Shinguuji’s starkly elegant form bends forward, craning over him, hair pouring to curtain them on either side, and Saihara’s vision is hemmed into the vivid image of their hips aligning closer by the second. His eyes flicker between Shinguuji’s face and pelvis; both are difficult to look at but impossible to look away from. Spindly as Shinguuji is, Saihara can still feel the beginnings of his body heat.

“Lie back,” Shinguuji instructs. “Ideally, we don’t want your neck to cramp.” A feathery touch glides up the inside of his thigh. “You may want to raise your hips as well.”

As best he can, Saihara complies. His head goes back against the pillows, his feet find purchase on the mattress to angle his hips higher, and his mind wheels circles around itself in disbelieving anticipation. He’s thought about this before but can’t remember how it ends in those thoughts anymore.

The dark of Shinguuji’s pupils is rounder and deeper and, for just an instant, more tender than before. “Saihara, I remain grateful that you allow me to assist. It’s truly a pleasure.” His clean hand strokes from Saihara’s cheekbone to chin. “In every sense of the word.”

Saihara mumbles an incoherent, embarrassed noise. “I, I-I’m the grateful one.” With immeasurable effort, he manages not to break eye contact. “You...you can keep going. It’s still okay.”

This time, Shinguuji is the one to nod. Clean hand at the junction of Saihara’s waist and hip, dirtied hand at the base of his own cock, he leans in. His tip is hot and solid between Saihara’s folds.

Then it’s hot and solid pushing past them, pushing deeper into him, stretching him like even Shinguuji’s fingers hadn’t done. Slow, firm, continuous.

He releases a hoarse breath. He curls his fingers into the sheets. He thinks that he can feel Shinguuji’s heartbeat in the pulse of his cock.

Because it is pulsing, inside of him. It’s almost hilted now, Shinguuji’s other hand coming to mirror the first so that the base of it is free to press against Saihara’s hips. The thought occurs to Saihara that he’s taken it all on his first try, and then that he’s lost his virginity.

And before he can recover, Shinguuji begins to speak.

“Are you familiar with the concept of Russian roulette?” His voice is smooth as polished bone, lilting in that odd way that it does once he begins a lecture. He’s slipped his role on like another layer of bandages or another chain on his uniform; Saihara’s stomach lurches in a manner that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Unsure what his answer should be, Saihara says nothing. The sheets balled in his fingers are a lifeline without a ship.

Shinguuji’s thumbs trace unbroken ovoid circles in the valleys of his hipbones. “Russian roulette,” he says, “is a game of chance in which a single bullet is placed in a revolver, the cylinder is spun, and the trigger is pulled against one’s head.” 

Slowly, very slowly, he rocks his hips. The thrust is shallow, not enough to pull his cock entirely out before it slides back and its head nudges what Saihara breathlessly realizes must be his cervix, and Saihara swallows so hard he barely hears Shinguuji begin to continue.

“The first recorded instance of the game, albeit unnamed, occurred in a story by Mikhail Lermontov...it was 1840, I believe?” He pauses, seems to catch himself poised for a tangent. “But that’s neither here nor there. What I do find fascinating about the game is the level of risk involved.”

He rocks his hips again, and it’s harder this time, enough that Saihara can start to feel the pressure against his pelvis. The stroke of it brushes something that make’s Saihara’s cunt tighten in a split-second spark of surreal heat.

“Most historic instances of Russian roulette discovered occurred in environments of severe stress and, oxymoronically, boredom.” Shinguuji’s voice is a steady, measured metronome counting down to the next pass of his fingertips over Saihara’s soft, pulled-taut stomach. “Humans grew so desperate for reprieve that they considered the thrill of escape worth the threat of capture.”

For a third time, then a fourth time, then a fifth time, he rocks his hips, and after that Saihara stops counting. There’s no need to, now that he’s being outright fucked—because that’s what this is. Shinguuji is fucking him, pressing him into the mattress, dragging the shaft of his throbbing cock against a spot inside Saihara that makes him dig his teeth into his bottom lip. His legs are beginning to tremble where he’s braced them against the bed.

“To any game of Russian roulette,” Shinguuji says, yellow-gold eyes slitted, “there are two outcomes.” His single exhale doesn’t make it through his zippered mask. “The first and most statistically likely outcome is that you succeed. You proceed with your life unscathed, having taken a risk and successfully avoided it.”

Saihara’s own exhale rattles out of his throat and gets caught behind his sealed lips.

Shinguuji’s hands on his hips close in a grip that isn’t immobilizing so much as it is commanding. “The second outcome, then, is that you fail.” With each thrust, Shinguuji bottoms out, tip snug against Saihara’s cervix. Even past the blush reaching over his mask, there’s a serene kind of intensity to his gaze. “You face permanent and severe consequences brought on by a single moment of weakness.”

Unable to help himself, Saihara whimpers quietly.

In a careful, practiced movement, Shinguuji leans in, bringing their faces closer and Saihara further under him. Too much of Saihara’s effort is going towards keeping himself from squirming his hips to leave enough to tear his eyes away from the uncanny way Shinguuji tilts his head. Even like this, it’s endearing. “Saihara, you’re ovulating today, aren’t you?”

“I,” Saihara ekes out, voice shakier and breathier than he expected, “I, um…” He feels hot, far too hot, all over.

“Consider,” Shinguuji says, “we are both in the prime of our youth.” With as much as it’s twitching, his cock must be leaking precum. It’s difficult to tell through how impossibly wet Saihara is. “Statistics may be biased, but they can only do so much.”

Saihara’s gut is a tight, fluttering coil twisting further by the second, and his hips are beginning to judder upwards. He won’t last much longer.

Shinguuji pushes into him with fluid, deliberate movements, but the restless tremor to his muscles passes through Saihara’s legs where they’re hiked up on either side of him. He shuts his eyes, lets his head hang, and just for a moment, the smooth lilt leaves his voice. “Saihara. I’m close.”

The jolt stops Saihara’s breath and heartbeat and thoughts all at once. His hands are clammy around the sheets. His tongue darts gracelessly across his lips to moisten them. “K-keep...keep going.”

And Shinguuji says no more, only fucks Saihara harder, breaks from his rhythm to rut into him in fevered, animal movements as Saihara begins to come apart from himself—he lets go of the sheets, wraps his arms around Shinguuji, his legs around Shinguuji—

He cums hard, the orgasm washing through his body in shuddering, electric, viscerally satisfying waves. 

It’s good enough that the counterpoint of thick liquid heat seeping deep into him as Shinguuji buries his masked face in Saihara’s neck almost doesn’t register.

**Author's Note:**

> i was so fucking disappointed when i learned that "coup de fou" means "blowjob" and not "cumshot" because i was so close to a pun


End file.
